Not Dead
by irishsaints81
Summary: Sherlock decides to share his survival with Greg Lestrade immediately prior to the events of Empty Hearse.


"Sherlock Holmes." Greg Lestrade paused as the cameras panned in on his face. How to say any of this was a struggle. The first words that came to mind were _that stupid prat_. But that wasn't how one made amends for two years of botched conclusions that the greatest consulting detective of all time was in fact the greatest consulting criminal of all time. That wasn't how one apologised. Especially not for _his_ death. "He was…" How to describe what Sherlock Holmes had been, still was, to all of them.

For Greg himself, Sherlock had been a nuisance. He had a tendency to cut the police out of his investigations, including those to which Greg himself had invited the arrogant detective, arguing instead that Scotland Yard would just muck it all up. Looking down at his perfectly outlined notes that he just could not seem to read for these reporters (who had to be wondering why he hadn't spoken in such a very long time) and for the people of London, Greg had to wonder if he was right. This investigation had been botched from the start. _No James Moriarty_. Greg shook his head. Of course, there had been a James Moriarty. Of course, Sherlock hadn't been lying.

For John though, Sherlock had been much more. After Sherlock's death, Greg had watched John's downward spiral. John simply recited that Sherlock couldn't be dead. As the greatest and wisest man that John had ever known, he couldn't be dead. After enough days of silence and this repetitious one-sided conversation, Greg had started seeing John less and less. In the past year, Greg hadn't seen him at all. Every time that he received a call on a potential suicide, he simultaneously expected that it would be John and prayed that it wouldn't.

For Molly, her response had been something entirely different. Already quiet and reserved, she drew even further into herself. She kept odd hours. The night that Scotland Yard had discovered the very real presence of James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal and Mastermind of Sherlock's Death (Greg could only ever think of it all in capitals, as a momentuous incident from which the world could never return), he had spoken to her. She had grown twitchy, seeming to shrug off everything he said. After a long day, Greg hadn't thought anything of it. Now, under the watchful eye of the vultures who wanted a statement, he couldn't help but think. Maybe she had known that it wasn't Sherlock? Maybe she had been part of Anderson's Empty Hearse Club, convening to logic away how the great Sherlock Holmes could have escaped death. Sherlock Holmes- so great that not even he could kill himself.

Greg raised his head, clearing his throat. He couldn't read off his crib sheet. None of the words here could even begin to capture what Sherlock Holmes had been. To him, to John, to Molly, to Mrs. Hudson, to everybody. To London. This statement, this _apology_, had to be for all of them. "Sherlock Holmes was the best consulting detective that this city has ever seen. I would even argue that he was the best consulting detective that the world has ever seen. He was not the only consulting criminal. He was not a murderer. He was a good man, caught up in one James Moriarty's plan.

"James Moriarty did exist. He was not in fact Richard Brook, the out-of-work actor hired to play a criminal mastermind. He was just a criminal mastermind. He engineered the deaths of many, managed to break into the Tower of London as well as the vault at the Bank of England, and caused chaos at Pentonville Prison. Sherlock Holmes was not at fault for any of these incidents. These were all executed by James Moriarty and James Moriarty alone. Sherlock Holmes was many thing. For those of us who knew him, he was arrogant. He was brilliant. And most of all, he is innocent of all those crimes with which he has been accused.

"We at Scotland Yard apologise for our accusations over the past two years since Sherlock Holmes' death. Although there is no justice that we can seek, given the suicide of James Moriarty on the same day as Sherlock Holmes'…" Greg stopped, unable to force the words out. Sherlock Holmes' suicide. Three little words, but they shoved into and against his throat almost tangibly. _Must avoid those words then_. "Scotland Yard apologises for its accusation of Sherlock Holmes for all those crimes that the criminal Moriarty committed. Thank you." He began to step away from the mic, but the media vultures began shouting at him. Phrases like "Scotland Yard must be held accountable" and "recompense" floated past him as he shoved past them, back to Anderson along the back wall of the room.

Anderson glanced at him as they escaped out of the room. "He's not dead, you know."

Greg glowered at him. "He is. He's dead. You saw. I did as well. Everybody saw him jump…Just everybody saw it." They joined the queue at the coffee stand, placing their orders with the small man behind the cart. "Your guilt's not going to bring him back, Anderson." After forking over the five quid for his tepid coffee, Greg began the walk towards his car. He knew where he had to go. He had to say his real apology.

John Watson stood in front of the gravestone. Polished black marble. Simple, no drama. Just clean, pure marble. Absolutely nothing like the man that it was supposed to memorialise. Sherlock had been drama incarnate. _The game is on_. _The stakes are high_. Couldn't the bloody man just say, "Let's go" like any other damn individual? No. No, he couldn't. Instead it was the game is on and eyeballs in fridges and overwhelming character assessments of people that he had just met that 99% of the time were spot on. Drama queen. He had lived in drama and now, in death, everything was quiet. Even the cemetery was quiet and well-kept. It all seemed so final and so improper.

For the last two years, John had come to this gravesite at least once a week. Sometimes he pleaded with Sherlock to still be alive. Sometimes he just sat there. And then he had met someone. Six months ago today, in fact. Mary Morstan, the clever nurse at his office, who seemed to find him amusing and not at all depressing. That in itself was unusual. Even on their third date, when he took her to Sherlock's gravestone, she found it an endearing and loyal gesture to his deceased best friend, rather than alienating and morose. John fingered the jewelry box in his left pocket, knowing what Sherlock would have said. _Marriage changes you as does a lethal injection_. _ Marriage and murder are similar procedures, over only when one of the parties is dead, but murder is quicker_. _You're a romantic, only romantics favour marriage_. But although he would have bitched and moaned and his best man speech would have been a terrible wreck, Sherlock would have liked Mary.

From behind him came the sound of grass rustling. He half turned, not really taking his eyes of the grave. "It's about time you came."

Greg shifted his feet guiltily against the turf. "Yeah, I s'pose it is." He rubbed the back of his neck, studying John closely. He looked different. Happier. Nothing like the drawn, depressed man that he had last seen over a year ago. Had in fact shouted at that same depressed man to seek help because he was concerned that John was heading down a far more lethal path than any of them had expected. "How've you been, John?"

John shrugged, putting a wealth of words into that slight raising of his shoulders. "I'm alright." A moment lapsed before he added, "I got help. I'm seeing a psychiatrist who's…yeah, she's helping me."

"Well, that's fantastic." Greg pursed his lips, searching about for a non-volatile topic. But given where they were standing, topics of that nature seemed in short supply. Before he could find one, John interjected.

"I'm proposing to my girlfriend tonight."

Well, _that_ was unexpected. "Good on you," he replied. "Congratulations." He glanced awkwardly at the tombstone. The apology that he had to make was not one that he wanted to make in front of John. John, the man that he had arrested. John, the man who had lost the most that brisk, cold morning when Sherlock had leapt from the roof of St. Bart's. John, the man who had had to plan Sherlock's funeral because Mycroft Holmes had vanished from London that day. Greg owed John his own apology, but these things had to be dealt with in their own time. Now was now that time.

But John seemed to get the message as Greg shifted his eyes away from the gravemarker. "I'll be off then," he said. He lightly touched the gravestone and muttered a sentence that Greg could barely understand. Something that sounded like, "I owe you so much." It felt like an oddly personal moment upon which to infringe, making Greg feel almost indecent about just standing there. As John walked away, he tossed over his shoulder, "It was good to see you."

Greg nodded, although John was now too far away to see it. Now that the cemetery was empty, he found it difficult to find the right words. It seemed that he was having that problem a lot today. "I am so sorry, mate. I should have known so long ago that it was a frame-up. That it was actually Moriarty. But now it's too late. And you're just gone…" The quiet seemed to mock him; he could almost hear the echo of his words and their complete arbitraryness. None of this seemed like enough. And if he were honest about it, and if Sherlock were actually alive for him to apologise to, Sherlock wouldn't have wanted any of this apology. It would have bored him. "You were brilliant, you arrogant bastard. And you should have trusted us." That was the apology that Sherlock would have wanted. A recognition of his abilities. That would have to be enough for Greg as well.

His mobile rang as he began walking towards his car. He pulled it from its belt holster, and glanced down. Donovan. He would take care of anything once he got back to his office, but he knew it had to be disrepectful to answer a call in a cemetery. Even if only the dead were there. After enough years on the force, you learned to respect all of that superstitious mumbo-jumbo, even if you didn't believe in it. In Homicide, he had seen true evil take its ugly form, destroying women and men, young and old. Children. Sherlock Holmes. Believing in true evil was only a step away from being able to believe in the stories of demons and evil spirits.

Greg unlocked the car, sliding into the worn seat. Time to go to work. Before he shifted the car into gear, he glanced up. And stared.

Across the street, less than 25 meters away, stood a dark-haired man. His black coat flapped around him, collar pulled up against the wind.

Greg blinked repeatedly before shoving his car door open. The sudden bone-chilling wind forced it back against him, requiring him to heave against it with his full weight. He had to get out of this car. He had to see if that was really Sherlock. He had to go…

There was no one there. Finally free of the car, he squinted into the wind. He knew that he had seen a man there. One very specific man, not just any man. He supposed that it was possible that he was losing his mind, but…after two years, it seemed like such an odd hallucination. Either way, he had to look. Disregarding the look both ways rule, Greg charged across the street, towards the boarded up old brick townhome in front of which the dark-haired man had stood. As he circled irritatedly in front of the house, he frowned, muttering angrily to himself. The doors and windows were completely boarded up, no man-sized holes (or even mouse-sized, for that matter), no signs of disturbance. Could it really be that the stress of his job, of Sherlock's suicide, of everything and everyone that he had to deal with in his division, had finally gotten to him? He had thought that he had seen the worst of what Homicide did to its inspectors and overcome it but…maybe he was wrong.

As he shivered in the cold, searching for something, some hint, some sign that he hadn't finally checked out of reality, a fluttering piece of paper jammed into the mail slot caught his eye. It was crumpled and folded and yellowed, appearing like it had been stuck there for months, if not years, unnoticed by its last occupants before they moved. He knelt before the mail slot and jostled it gently. After a few minutes of gentle tugging and finally out right pulling after he had gotten frustrated with being patient, he had the old piece of paper in his hand, grinning victoriously. The grin faded away as he opened it slowly, arguing against his burgeoning hope. It was probably nothing. Probably just some old post or a grocery list or an overdue bill. Probably anything but what he hoped against hope it would be. As he lifted the final folded flap and he read the message, he rocked back onto his haunches. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

But it was. Scrawled across the crumpled old piece of paper in his illegible handwriting were two words.

–NOT DEAD.


End file.
